St Georgia and the Dragoon
by Ladytalon
Summary: When transported back to the 18th century and into the life of a handsome Dragoon, what's a girl to do? Turn his life upside down, of course! WARNING: Adult content
1. Chapter 1

DISCLAIMER I don't own _The Patriot_ or any of its characters…though I wouldn't mind having my own Tavvie.

A/N: As this is my first attempt at TavFic, please be as nice as you can manage – constructive criticism is very much welcome. Poor Tavvie…it seems as if he's doomed to be beset by Mary Sues for eternity. The only other viable female character would be whatsherface played by Joely Richardson, but I still haven't forgiven her for getting to do all those love scenes with Sean Bean in _Lady Chatterley._ It may be petty, but I've never claimed to be reasonable.

Georgia Lee Hampstead wanted out. A somewhat steady job as an art gallery attendant was all fine and well, if one could stand the innate snobbery of the clientele, but it was incredibly monotonous. She was currently overseeing the placement of several paintings in a small gallery in the heart of Charleston, as a favor to her employer. Favor was just putting a good face on 'Do it and don't argue, or you're fired' – Arnold Hollings had just wanted to go traipsing off to the Caribbean with his latest mistress. Of course, this meant that, not only did she have to hang about the gallery every day until it closed, she had to field phone calls from _Mrs._ Hollings as well. She hoped Arnie got third degree burns on his bald spot, the sleaze.

The workers finished hanging the paintings and left with a "See ya, George!" She glanced around to look for any potential customers before perching on the stool behind the counter and pulling her bag up from underneath the display case. She selected her sketchbook and started the shading on her latest portrait, which was Sean Bean from the _Sharpe_ series. She finished quickly and glanced at her watch – one more hour. Sighing and pulling her long hair back into a messy ponytail, George hopped off of the stool and began wandering through the gallery to look at the paintings for the umpteenth time and wishing she were able to lock the place up and go across the way to the large indoor market. She supposed that only one or two vendors would be left by the time she _could_ lock up and turned her mind away from this when she stopped in front of her favorite painting of a man in uniform. This was different from the other styles, more lifelike somehow…and it didn't hurt at all that the man in the painting was extremely good looking. _No one could have ever looked like that_, she thought with a smile. She ran her fingers lightly over the brass plate with the engraving _English Dragoon by Unknown Artist, 1780._

George walked on after a final admiring glance at the blue-eyed officer. She always enjoyed visiting Charleston and walking the historic district, but she hadn't been able to find time to do so in this trip. _Hollings strikes again, Georgia Lee_. She paused at a large mirror to examine her teeth disinterestedly. "Nope, it's not spinach," she informed her reflection seriously, then laughed at the absurdity of talking to herself. She quickly sobered at the sight and she tugged her pink tank-top down over – Good Lord! Where those actually _love handles_? "Exercise time, girl," she muttered. All that made her think of was how Eric had deserted her for that co-worker of his…what had she been, a size -3? Of course, this was just after he had "borrowed" nearly all the money in their joint checking account – he had considerately left her fifty cents. She should have never let him con her into that one, but her mother had always told her that trust was the key in any relationship…ironically, her mother had been first to say "I told you so."

So now she spent practically every waking moment working for that slime Hollings, as well as taking odd jobs on the side – last week she had been cleaning houses – just to make enough money for her rent. Art school was out of the question now. The bell on the door chimed as someone entered the gallery and she broke off her disgusted perusal of her excess cushioning and flipped her long black hair over one shoulder as she trotted to the front. "Hey!" she yelled happily as she recognized her sister Cassandra.

"Are you almost done? You _did_ say there was some good stuff to be found in the market," her sister teased, embracing her fondly.

"Only one more hour…oh, it's thirty minutes now…" They spent the remaining time discussing their respective jobs – Cassandra Peyton worked as a traveling nurse, mostly focusing on training others. She entertained George with stories of her ex-husband Greg, who worked in the local sheriff's department. Then it was time to lock up and they ran across the street…and were disappointed to find that the majority of vendors had gone home for the day. They received disapproving looks from the remaining sellers who were slowly closing down their stalls when the sisters stopped to look.

"You'd think that they'd be happy to have a customer," Cassandra quipped. George's eyes were drawn to a corner stall where a wizened old woman sat in a rocking chair and was clearly in no hurry to leave. They went over to admire the vintage jewelry and try some on, laughing at some of the flashier pieces.

" I like _this_ one," George breathed admiringly as she noticed, stuck in a corner of the display case and half-covered by a draping of velvet, a somewhat tarnished silver ring made up of smaller bands, like a puzzle ring. It looked as if each piece had a tiny jewel embedded in it so that, when worn separately, it would match any outfit. "How much for this?" she asked, pointing to the case.

"That ring, miss? Wouldn't advise buyin' that one – too much trouble, it is," the old woman said. "Got a nice pretty one over _here_," and she tapped another case.

No, I want this one," George maintained. How much did you say it was?"

The old woman frowned at her. "You'll pay more than you've ever thought to forfeit, missy." When George insisted on buying it, the old woman threw up her hands with a hint of a smile on her wrinkled face. "Two hundred."

Two hundred dollars? Her face fell. She really couldn't afford to spare two hundred, and from the look on the woman's face, she knew it. This angered her for some reason, and she pulled out her wallet from her pack before she had time to think about what she was doing. "I'll take it." Cassandra had a coughing fit.

"I can't believe you did that," Cass laughed as they walked down the sidewalk outside.

"Neither can I," George admitted ruefully. "For some reason, I just didn't want her to think she could walk all over me…hey, ice cream!" she tugged on her sister's arm, pointing to the Häagen Dazs store.

Cass looked at her loftily. "Since I suppose I'm buying, can I at least take a look at your $200 ring? It looked like a piece of crap…" George dug out the carefully wrapped box – apparently the old lady had been so offended at her presumption, she had wrapped the ring's box up as tightly as she could, with paper and then wound an entire roll of tape around it. She tore into it with a vengeance until she could actually see the lid, and lifted it off just as a group of boys on skateboards went past, knocking against her elbow and sending the box flying. The ring hit the sidewalk and separated into segments. "Oh, shit!" They knelt and reached to scoop up two rings apiece when George felt a decidedly odd pull on the hand that was touching the rings.

"What was that?" She asked just as it came again, stronger this time. Cass frowned at her just as the pull intensified and suddenly they were falling…

Falling….

Falling…

And landing…somewhere. They seemed to be in a forest. "What the _hell_ was that?" her sister demanded.

"I don't know…but I think I'm gonna be sick," George moaned, clutching her stomach – she had never been good friends with vertigo. The sound of a gun shot nearby startled both women, who jumped and huddled down against a fallen tree trunk as they glimpsed movement in the trees.

"Sir! Over here, I see something!" came the yell from the foliage – the underbrush shook as, from the sound of it, several men drew close.

"Oh, shit – _run_!" Cassandra yelled and leapt up to follow her own advice.

As they ran and tried to keep from tripping on vines and branches, they got separated (Cass just _had_ to be wearing green today) when George's pack got caught on a low hanging branch and she went down into the mud swearing – wrenching herself back to her feet, she called out to her sister unthinkingly, and heard her pursuers gain ground as they followed the sound of her voice. Slipping and falling yet again, she didn't notice when her pack slid off her shoulders and into the leaves. Hands grabbed at her and she screamed, striking out at her attackers and receiving a stunning blow to the face that sent her spinning to the ground. "**_Help_**," she yelled as loudly as she could, and got another back-handed slap. Boots surrounded her in a tight circle and she held one hand to her rapidly swelling cheek as she looked up at some very oddly-dressed men who looked as if they hadn't bathed in five years.

They demanded to know her name and her business, and some of her courage came back. "W-who am _I_? Who are _you_, and why were you chasing me?" she demanded, trying to put up as brave a front as she could – she remembered from an article that it was never good to show _too_ much fear when you were attacked. But then, false bravado could get you raped and killed faster…it all depended on the person doing the attacking…_Shit. Shit. Shit._

"She's a spy, kill her!"

"We can have some fun first, though…"

She closed her eyes tight, willing away tears. _Be brave, Georgia Lee_. George could smell the rankness of them as they drew closer, and a grimy hand grasped her hair, when…

"Redcoats! Two scouts!" she heard, and opened her eyes to see her chance and grasp it when the men looked the other way, reaching for their guns. Lunging to her feet, she evaded the grasping arms of a tall man with stringy hair and took off with her fear fueling her flight. She ran as hard as she could until she finally saw what seemed to be a trail – George could see shapes on horseback trotting parallel to her and sped up, her lungs ready to burst. She flew out of the trees and fetched up before the leading horse and its surprised rider. "_Help me_," she gasped, clutching at the bridle in desperation. Shots rang out and the man reached down to grasp her by the back of her top and lifting her so that she was tossed across his lap. _Not again_, George thought wearily as she tried to keep from falling back down onto the trail when her newest captor flicked the reins and the horse began to trot.

When she had regained enough of her breath to expel it in a scream, she did so as she struggled violently…and was surprised when a gloved hand came cracking down on her upturned bottom censoriously. "Be still or I shall tie you," Came the calm command delivered in a crisp English accent. She gasped in shock, twisting to look up at him and almost biting her tongue as the horse jumped a fallen tree. Her newest assailant (she couldn't believe that he had actually _spanked_ her) was dressed in a red and green uniform jacket and some sort of ornate belt that her cheek was currently mashed against as she was jounced along on his lap. What was going _on_ here? "I want my sister," she insisted loudly. He ignored her and when her insides had been turned thoroughly inside out from all the bouncing, other riders came up around them to report to Thighs of Steel, as she privately named him – she would have rested better on a bed of spikes. Worry for herself as well as Cassandra overwhelmed her so she didn't notice at first when they arrived in an encampment.

Thighs of Steel dismounted and pulled her off of the horse – she had to cling to him to remain upright and finally got her first look at her rescuer/abductor. He was tall, made even taller by his odd helmet, black with what looked like feathers on it. _Great, I've been kidnapped by a good-looking ostrich_. "Who are you?" he demanded in a voice that made her knees instantly turn to goo. Fantastic – tall, gorgeous, _and_ British…a lethal combination in Georgia's books. He reminded her of someone, but how could she forget another man who looked like this one? Beautiful was the only word good enough for him, and she suddenly realized that he now looked very annoyed at having had to repeat his question – what was it, at least three times now? He definitely looked like the kind of man who expected instant obedience from others…if they could stop from wallowing in those blue eyes for half a second.

"Why does everyone keep asking me that? You people need to just go back to playing 'North and South' and leave me out of it – I certainly never asked to be chased by the Renaissance Faire," she griped, crossing her arms across her breasts defensively as she saw his eyes drift down to her chest. _Can't I just start today over again? I'd put a more sensible bra on, for starters_.

Thighs of Steel looked at her as if she'd grown two heads – at least now he had returned his gaze back to her face, but she strongly suspected that she was regaining the "deer in headlights" look as his eyes met hers. "North and…?" he sighed and shook his head, indicating that he didn't want to know anything else. "You do realize that I can hang you as a spy," he went on, studying her face intently before resuming his inspection of her now-muddy pink tank top, khaki shorts, and hiking boots.

George groaned and brought up a hand to her sore cheek to touch it gingerly. "_Hang_ me? I'm not anyone's spy! Okay, this role-playing shit has gone on long enough, and I-"

"If you're not a spy, then why were you running straight towards us?" he asked quickly.

"Um – acting out 'Chariots of Fire'?"

"What?"

"Look, just let me go – I'm cold, tired, my feet hurt, my face hurts, and I need a shower. I would add that I need to pee, but I'm afraid that the other group of guys scared it right out of me."

His eyebrows arched at this pronouncement and she heard him mutter something about "vulgar colonials" before raising his voice and calling another man over to watch her just as another group of horsemen rode up with some of her original assailants. "If she tries to run, shoot her," he said evenly. George gaped at him as he turned to stride away, calling out orders that the others sprang to obey.

"Who does he think he is, God?" she said angrily. "I want to go back to Charleston; I've had enough of this crap."

"_Charleston_, miss? You mean, Charles Town," her guard, a big heavily built man with dark hair and a strong jaw, corrected her.

George sighed. "You know what? Just stop playing your little role. When I get back, I'll have every one of you morons thrown in jail so fast your heads will spin – my sister's ex-husband is a Deputy. Get a bunch of men together in their costumes and they'll play it to the hilt…I'm sure I'll be able to get on the phone and make sure your reenactment company is disbanded." She was on a roll and continued her rant to her hapless guardian, who looked completely bewildered. Glancing around as she maintained her tirade, she saw that Thighs of Steel was now standing with another older man in an absurd powdered wig and gesturing towards her then to her attackers, who were arranged in a phony 'firing line.' "Now they're going to pretend to shoot them," she snorted in disgust. "Watch this."

And she watched as the men in red and green lifted their rifles - "loaded with blanks," she said wisely – and fired. And stared as red blossomed on the trees behind the men before they toppled over, clearly dead. "Oh. My. GOD," she gasped, her hands coming up to cover her mouth in horror. "They're really dead – they just…they…oh my god…" Over by the largest tent, the two men looked back over at her – Powdered Wig turned and walked back inside the tent and left Thighs of Steel to remove his helmet as he sauntered over to nudge the fallen bodies with a boot. "This isn't a Civil War reenactment troop, is it?" she asked shakily.

"Civil War? No ma'am…"

Georgia Lee Hampstead strongly suspected that she wasn't in Kansas anymore.


	2. Questions and Insults

DISCLAIMERSNot mine, unfortunately.

A/N: Here goes another chapter of mindlessness...

Colonel William Tavington nudged the bodies with a boot as he lifted his hands to remove his helmet, and then glanced back over to where the woman was sitting under the watchful eye of Wilkins – she seemed to be having some sort of fit. _Women_. They saw a dead body and immediately became useless for anything other than being bedded…he snorted in disgust. It had been quite a surprise to see a half-nude woman running from the trees and up to him, though – most women stayed as far away from him as they could manage. Cornwallis had told him to get information from the silly bint, so he tucked his helmet underneath his arm and started towards her, one hand idly caressing the hilt of his sword – he couldn't keep from feeling a cruel satisfaction when her eyes widened apprehensively. "Bring her," he said disinterestedly to no one in particular, waving a hand towards a nearby tent, and Wilkins directed the startled woman inside.

"What are you going to do to me?" she asked warily.

In response, he merely rested his eyes on her until she looked away in confusion…for a colonial, she really wasn't all that bad, he thought. A scandalous choice of clothing to be sure, but it suited her. She had long black hair, tangled with bits of twigs in it, and extremely pale skin that obviously bruised easily – her cheek was turning a deep shade of violet, and he wondered if she had a bruise from when...he jerked his mind away from the contemplation of her bottom (she _had_ been a pleasant lapful, all things considered) and returned his attention to questioning her. "Name?" he asked. She mumbled something. "Pardon?" He leaned forward just as she launched herself at him, hissing and clawing like an oversized cat. He caught her easily and flipped her against the table, pressing against her to hold her down – it had _absolutely_ nothing to do with the fact that he simply wanted to be close to her again – while she wriggled against him and demanded her release. "Stop now," he sighed. "Just tell me your name, and what you're doing here."

The fight slowly ebbed from her small frame and she pushed at his chest. "Fine. Let me up – you weigh about 10 tons," she complained. Grudgingly beginning to talk, she crossed her arms over her chest again and stared at his sword. "My name is George Hampstead. And I am _not_ a spy."

His eyebrows rose. "George. No woman gives her daughter a man's name-"

"It's short for Georgia, okay? I don't like that name, so people call me George."

"Fine…_Georgia_. What are you doing here?" He found that he rather enjoyed the sound of her name; the fact that it was irritating her was just a bonus.

Her shoulder slumped as she continued. "I was shopping with Cass- that's my sister – and I bought this ring. When I opened the box, some kids ran into me and I dropped it…it used to have four pieces to it" she lifted her hand to show him two small bands of silver fitted together on one of her fingers "and when we picked them up, somehow we were dumped into that forest and men were chasing us – we got separated," she ended in a whisper, her green eyes rapidly filling with tears. This greatly alarmed him…after all her shows of spirit, Tavington felt decidedly odd witnessing her despair and he covered it by lifting her hand in his on the pretense of studying the ring. "What's _your_ name?" she asked hesitantly and he looked back up at her, still holding her hand.

"Colonel Tavington, His Majesty's Green Dragoons," he said formally, his thumb moving idly over her knuckles.

For some reason, she looked as if she might faint. "Does 'Colonel Tavington, His Majesty's Green Dragoons' have a first name?"

"No."

"Well. Can I…ask you a question?" she asked almost timidly – he dropped her hand in disgust. _And so she turns out to be yet another shrinking female…lovely._ "What year is it?" _Fantastic - not shrinking, but mad as a loon._ He told her, and watched her clap her hands over her mouth in horror…really; this one belonged in a play house in London. Her next words confirmed it. "I'm from the twenty-first century."

He sighed in exasperation. "Yes, I suppose you are. And I also suppose that, in your 'time,' men can fly and have been to the moon," he said derisively.

Georgia had an odd look on her face, almost as if she were trying not to laugh. "Well…yes."

Tavington stared at her as Bordon ducked into the tent. "Enough; I don't have time for this. If you wanted to be a part of the baggage train, you might've just said as much and saved me from having to listen to this ludicrous flight of fancy."

"I can prove it!"

"And how, pray tell, can you do that?"

"My pack! I have things from my time in my bag."

"And where is this bag of yours?" he inquired archly. Her face fell as she admitted that she had lost it. "Fancy that." She responded with a word he'd never heard before, but if he wasn't familiar with the word itself, he understood the spirit behind it all too well. _At least she's no longer about to burst into tears,_ he thought with relief as he motioned Bordon over. His captain murmured that another young woman had been found and was currently being questioned by Wilkins. They left the woman to be supervised by two privates who were doing their best not to stare at her bare limbs, and walked over to where a tall woman wearing the same sort of scandalous attire was talking anxiously to Captain Wilkins. _This must be her sister_, Tavington thought – they didn't look much alike. This one was much taller, had extremely short brown hair, brown eyes, and was very thin, a stark contrast to her sister's lush curves. _Aaaaand that's enough of that_. He shook his head to clear it of such thoughts – it was high time he visited the local 'den of iniquity' if this is what resulted in a comely woman's sudden appearance in the camp.

Intense questioning yielded the same answers Georgia Hampstead had given, and Cassandra was a great deal more forthcoming and pleasant, though no less shocked than her sister at finding that she was in the "past." Of a certainty, the two had planned this so that they would have corroborating stories. Tavington had to speak sharply to Wilkins, for the man was too busy staring at the new arrival to pay attention to him, to take both women to the others in the baggage train and leave guards with them.

He smoothed back a strand of hair that had come loose from his queue and left to report his findings to Cornwallis – he found the general eating while O'Hara fluttered around behind him with a supercilious expression on his face. "My lord," he greeted, inclining his head respectfully. "I have questioned the women – both maintain that they are from…from the future," he finished lamely, seeing his leader sigh heavily and set down his spoon while O'Hara smirked. "I've found no evidence that they are, in fact, spies…I questioned them thoroughly, and-"

O'Hara cut him off with a conceited smile. "Thoroughly, Colonel? I do hope they've not been irreparably harmed, since we all know of your…thoroughness." Cornwallis looked up in apparent agreement, frowning.

"My lord, they've not been harmed," he protested indignantly. The two officers looked at him, disbelief etched plainly upon their faces. When he told them that the women were being taken to the baggage train and placed under guard, O'Hara slyly suggested that they might visit the women to investigate this claim. "As you will, General." More officers were filing into the tent; they gave him looks full of disdain as they passed him, obviously hoping he was there for another public dressing-down. After being told that his "normal" conduct would not be tolerated (he bit the inside of his cheek in anger when one of the newly arrived officers, a lieutenant by the look of him, tittered without reprisal) he was dismissed. Bordon fell in step with him while he was angrily thinking of some way to teach the young snot a lesson he'd not soon forget and the captain, always eager to keep his leader's honor intact, happily began suggesting ideas when asked about the aide.

After being escorted to another section of the camp, George embraced her sister happily, relieved that Cass seemed to be unharmed. The sisters swapped stories; when they had been separated, Cassandra had hidden from the searchers until she had felt safe enough to come out of the tree she had climbed up in. "Luckily, I was found by some very courteous soldiers – are we _really_ in the 1770s?" Cass asked plaintively.

George looked around at the other women who were gathering into groups to whisper and point to them. "Yeah, I think we really are… did you just say, 'courteous'? Oh, that's right; Colonel Hot Pants was already here in camp with me."

Cass stared. "Who?"

"Tall, dark and arrogant – didn't he question you?"

Her sister laughed, running her fingers through her short hair. "Colonel…Tavington, I think his name was? Yes, he thought I was a spy or something. Good looking enough, I suppose… nice ass. You gonna go for him? I like that Captain Wilkins, myself." She stretched her arms above her head, making their guards' eyes almost pop out of their heads when her midriff was revealed. The watching women gasped in shock and drew closer together, whispering fiercely.

"_Wilkins_? When there are so many British boys running around everywhere? You're insane…and I'm not 'going' for Col. Whatshisface – too pompous." _But he **does** have a nice ass, and is gorgeous as all get-out_. "Let's go introduce ourselves; I'm going to get really tired of those women gossiping about us." They walked over and began talking to the incredulous women while the two Privates glanced at each other uneasily and shuffled their feet, but allowed the conversation as they had just been charged with making sure that the women didn't escape. Shortly the genuinely friendly and easygoing sisters had struck up several friendships and while some of the women were naturally skeptical about their claim to being from the future, others of a more superstitious nature believed them. "I don't suppose we can convince any of the men to go looking for my pack?" George asked wistfully as one of their new friends brought them "decent" clothing – if they thought for one minute she was going to wear a bonnet, they were sadly mistaken.

Cassandra laughed as she pulled on a skirt over her shorts, admiring the look in a mirror. "Probably not, though I could ask Michael…Captain Wilkins," she explained to her sister's quizzical look.

"Oh, that's nice. Two seconds after being thrown in the past and almost killed by hillbillies, you've progressed to a first name basis with one of our captors." _I wonder what Tavington's first name is._ "And speaking of them, look." George pointed past the young men guarding them (they were obviously delighted to be privy to some "girl talk" as well as the illicit thrill of watching them try on outfits) to a line of horsemen approaching rapidly.

Irma, one of their new acquaintances, stood hastily and smoothed her skirts with a nervous motion and called out a low-voiced warning to the other women. "Dragoons!" The sisters were surprised to see the others hurriedly fixing their hair and scrubbing at their faces before lining up with anxious expressions. "What are they doing over here?" George heard another woman ask. "We've done with laundry already. It's not even _dusk_..!"

The horses thundered up and she looked up with no real surprise to see Colonel Tavington heading the column and looking down at her in apparent disapproval. "I see that you haven't been provided with decent clothing yet." His cold eyes flashed over to Irma, who swallowed hard. "You will stay here with the other women; you will, under no circumstances, attempt to escape or mix with the other officers. I trust I have made myself clear."

George just couldn't help herself from answering, "Decent clothing? Well, I asked for a spiffy little uniform just like yours, but they didn't have one ready…" she saw anger beginning to replace disdain on his face and continued when she noticed the other Dragoons behind him grinning and nudging each other at her impudence. "And as much as I adore being stuck among the 'womenfolk,' I was actually planning on playing cards, drinking and swearing with the other men. But, since the Almighty Captain Tarleton says that I can't, I don't have much choice but to obey."

Suppressed gasps swept the line of women, and she thought that if he hadn't had gloves on, she would have seen his knuckles turn white as he gripped the reins. "That's _Colonel_ _Tavington_, you impudent, ill-mannered-"

"Ah, I'm immune to flattery," she said quickly, with a wink to the astonished Bordon who wasn't sure whether to frown or smile back at her – he settled for looking disapproving when Tavington swung around in his saddle to glare at him. George frowned in surprise when the Colonel's eyes narrowed calculatingly and reached into his uniform jacket for something…when he pulled out a coin and flipped it to her, she caught it and frowned at it. "What's this for?" she asked.

His lips curved in a callous smile and snickers sounded from the other Dragoons. "Do be sure to show her the way," he told Irma before wheeling his horse and motioning the others to follow him. The Dragoons trotted off after each had surveyed her with laughter in their eyes – well, Michael Wilkins was busily staring at Cassandra so he was the only one who didn't look at her.

"What was that all about?" she demanded as they rode off, looking at the coin. The women shuffled their feet and looked anywhere but at her. Irma reluctantly told her that it was 'pre-payment' for an 'assignation' and her resultant screech of indignation and rage nearly caused the guards to misfire their rifles in surprise. The shifting wind brought the sound of male laughter to their ears. "How _dare_ he? I can't believe him,' she fumed. "I'll fix him so he can't flip a coin at _anyone_."

The other women looked at her in shock. "Miss Hampstead… you don' want to make him angry with you," Nancy Travis said anxiously. "He's…he…no, you don' want to make him angered."

"And why not? Has it ever occurred to anyone that he needs to be put in his place?" George demanded. "Oh, shut up, Cass." Her sister was laughing so hard, she was clutching her stomach.

Nancy leaned forward conspiratorially. "His name the colonials gave him, miss. He's earned it ten times over, has he, The Butcher."

George felt the first stirrings of unease. "That's…that's his nickname? I don't suppose it's because he likes a good side of beef. No? Didn't think so. Does…does he really expect me to go to his tent?" she finished in a whisper.

Irma stepped in at this, shooing the guards out officiously. "Mayhap he does, mayhap not – if I were you, I'd be there right about now. He's not the worst sort, really…just a bit frightenin', is all." She hushed another woman who called out a suggestion as to what made him so frightening when she saw George pale slightly. "Seems to me, he likes you; usually doesn't come over here with his men at all. None ever speak back to him as you've done…but be careful how much sass you give, Georgia," the other woman begged. After giving the Privates directions on how to find Tavington's tent, they led her off to it.

She stared at the ground, scenarios running through her head – would he beat her, then rape her? Or would it be the other way 'round? George drug her feet but was hustled onward by the two privates who were clearly anxious to get her there so they could leave as soon as possible – Tavington inspired terror in the least of His Majesty's soldiers, and they had heard of several Generals who were made uneasy by his presence. Captain Bordon had a strange look on his face as she came up to the tent, and he motioned for her to enter. "Colonel Tavington is away, Miss, but he left word that you were to…tidy up." George ducked into the tent to see a first-class mess – was she really expected to organize all this? Items were strewn all over the place; it looked as if a bomb had gone off.

She angrily rounded on Bordon. "I'm supposed to clean up after him? You've got to be kidding!" The captain sighed and left her to it, shaking his head. Why his commander had suddenly turned his normally neat and clean tent upside down and inside out earlier made a lot more sense, now.

George echoed Bordon's parting sigh, albeit with a more disgusted flavor to it, and began to pick up after Tavington. It would figure that he would turn out to be an untidy psychopath. She organized the papers, put the books back in their places and began to dust idly before spotting the white undershirt and picking it up to inhale his scent (she looked around before doing so, of course – it wouldn't be good for her image to be seen sniffing his clothing) deeply. He smelled…_good_. Psycopath or not, she wouldn't mind sniffing the original, instead of huffing his shirt. She raised her head at this thought, coming to a realization.

Somewhere, the most beautiful bastard she'd ever met…didn't have his shirt on.


	3. Sweet dreams are made of this?

DISCLAIMER: I don't own anything from _The Patriot._

A/N: 18th Century Smut Alert, people...

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

George and Cassandra settled into a routine during the next few weeks – George would be haled off to perform odd jobs simply because it struck Tavington's fancy, and Cassandra was more or less left alone, though she opted to accompany her younger sister and help her with her "duties," which often included being in the vicinity of the other Dragoons. Not to mention watching with thinly veiled amusement when George and Tavington's indomitable wills clashed violently. The latest fracas had been after George had cajoled one of the colonel's subordinates into revealing his first name – the irritated Dragoon was now the butt of many jokes, and had nearly pistol-whipped the young woman after being called "Willy" in the presence of an extremely amused O'Hara. Their verbal wars were already the stuff of legend, and even the officer's wives had come to take a look at the woman who would stand toe-to-toe with the fearsome Tavington and not back down an inch. The other Dragoons always had a kind word for George; they had long since realized, even if the couple in question had not, that the two were perfectly suited for each other…the fun part would be when their commander finally figured it out.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Tavington swirled the wine in his glass, leaning back in his chair periodically to glance out of the tent flaps at his men, who were gathered around a small fire talking and laughing in low tones so they would not disturb him. He could be comfortably ensconced in a billeted room where he was waited on hand and foot by the lady of the house, but ever since he had left England and his family behind, he preferred to live as the soldier he was – he may have been born into the aristocracy, but his father had squandered his birthright and what he was now, he had fought tooth and nail to achieve. Not for the first time, he wondered what Georgia Hampstead was doing – lately she had taken to spending time in the quarters of the officer's wives, who found her something of a curiosity; their "pet madwoman." He secretly suspected that they were also overjoyed at the ease in which she infuriated him, often in the most public venue she could find…she was no doubt advising them how to create similar results with their husbands.

Georgia was the greatest of enigmas – he couldn't predict what would spill from her lips if her sister gave him a fortnight's notice of it. Lately he had been catching himself staring at her; admiring the graceful arch of her neck, watching how the sun caused blue-black highlights to touch her hair when the light was just so…and even a blind man would concur that the latest fashions fit her to perfection, never mind the fact that she wore a pair of men's breeches underneath them. He thought that they were most likely his, as he'd noticed a pair missing along with one of his shirts – the thought of her wearing his clothing, her bare skin caressed by the same fabric that had touched his body…it was not entirely unpleasant. The other officers no doubt thought him soft to allow a mere woman to harangue him (and she had come perilously close to meeting her doom, taking such liberties with his name), but the truth was that he enjoyed their confrontations, and sometimes took pains to arrange one for the sole purpose of seeing anger light her green eyes to a glowing emerald, and a flush to settle most becomingly over her pale complexion.

After draining the remaining contents of the goblet, he placed it on his writing desk and eased back in the chair to prop up his boots on a nearby chest while he put his arms behind his head and thought about the upcoming patrols his Dragoons would conduct the following day. There had been more reports of "The Ghost" and he intended to chase the rumors down to their source – it was just a matter of time before he put an end to the man once and for all…

A sound caught his attention and he looked over to see the tent flaps opening to admit…_her. _Georgia's ebony hair hung loose about her shoulders and down to her back, framing her rather impressive bosom. "What are you doing here?" he started to ask, but she put a finger to her lips quickly. Behind her, the men were still gathered around the fire as she slipped inside, drawing the flaps together. "Georgia, I don't think-" He was silenced once more as she swayed up to him and placed her finger on _his_ lips, trailing it down his neck while she smiled and moved to perch on his knee. Tavington's hands rose to encircle her waist as she looked down into his eyes, desire making the blood run hot in his veins. He leaned to kiss her but was stopped again by her fingers on his mouth and the sound of her laughter.

"William," she purred as she moved to straddle his right thigh, mischievously offering him a flash of the breeches she was wearing beneath her skirts. When her right hand began to slide down to his hip and then progress in slow circles between his legs, he thought he might faint for the first time in his life; he was already so hard that it pained him, and he bit his lip when her fingertips brushed teasingly over his crotch. He stared up at her, scarcely able to breathe as the torturous caresses continued and Georgia smiled down into his face before leaning to place small, sucking kisses on his neck.

When he thought he would run mad with the sensations she was creating, she disengaged from his throat to give him a sultry look and tilt her head, offering her flesh to him. He breathed her name and kissed the hollow of her throat, gently biting and tasting her skin while she moaned invitingly. He felt her opening his breeches, and then the cool night air was upon his heated flesh – when, a split second later her hand curled around his achingly erect shaft, swollen from her previous teasing, he groaned into her shoulder and bucked his hips. Then she was murmuring something to him, but he was beyond hearing…all he could think about was the stroking of her hand and the ecstasy surging through his body. "A bit faster, love, that's…oh, that's…_yes_," he sighed, his hand covering hers in demonstration. He leaned back as the pleasure began to crest, her voice urging him on, and…

…He hit the ground with a crash, jerking back into startled wakefulness. Breathing hard, he stared blindly up at the roof of the tent and made no move to climb to his feet; not even Bordon's appearance - he had charged into his tent at the sudden loud noise – served to bring him back to himself. His captain ran to his side and looked down into his face anxiously. "Sir? _Sir!_ Are you hurt, Colonel?"

Tavington blinked suddenly, his eyes focusing on the other man. "No…I was just…thinking."

His second-in-command nodded. "Very good, sir."

As he turned to leave, Tavington sighed and began to sit up, extracting himself from the ruins of the chair. "If I ever needed to fall on my own sword, you would make sure I didn't miss, wouldn't you, Bordon?"

"_What?_"

"Bring me another chair."

"Right away, Colonel Tavington."

When the erotic dreams continued the following night and gave no signs of relenting and leaving him in peace, Tavington began to pay closer attention to the young woman who now haunted him in every aspect of his life, and cunningly created more opportunities for them to interact. And if she noticed him paying particular attention to every hand gesture she made, she never mentioned it aloud.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

"I can't **_believe_** him!" Georgia screeched, walking stiffly into the tent she shared with her sister. She was prepared to loose more invective against the object of her everlasting ire when she stopped short at the sight of Cassandra holding hands with Captain Wilkins and smiling up at him. Her sister immediately stepped back and pretended to fix her hair, and George glared at Wilkins for no other reason than the fact that he was currently wearing his Dragoons uniform.

"Excuse us a moment, Michael," Cassandra said, blushing slightly as he kissed her hand and left, keeping as far away from George as he could possibly get and avoiding her eyes. "A little warning would be nice, you know," she complained. "What happened to you?"

George huffed, "I don't want to talk about it," and after two unsuccessful (and painful) attempts to sit down, she opted to fling herself facedown on her cot and scream into the blankets, her face bright red from anger and humiliation. "I want to go home," she informed the coverlet, adding a thump to the lumpy mattress for emphasis. William Tavington seemed to be always _there_ these days; she would turn a corner, open a door, attempt to steal a cannonball or two and who would always appear, but Colonel Bastard? Well, she _did_ give the cannonball back – she had simply wanted to see how heavy it was…not that _he_ had believed her, anyway. Lately he had taken to staring at her silently – she had even seen him inspecting her _hands_ for some strange reason – but when he _did_ open that mouth of his to speak, he was as infuriating as ever and deserved every single trick she could play on him.

Today, that had been placing a handful of burrs underneath the saddle pad on his horse – the horse had been unharmed, just irritated enough at the pricking to buck wildly when his rider had seated himself – and had laughed uproariously when Tavington had been violently thrown two times before he had realized what was happening and removed the burrs. As his had all occurred under the watchful gaze of Lord General Cornwallis (not to mention a full column of Infantry), he was suitably pissed off enough to haul her over his lap, draw his saber, and spank her with the flat of the blade. She had always thought that he looked strong and athletic, but there was nothing like a good thrashing to make a girl realize that some people were actually much stronger than they already looked. To add insult to severe backside injury, he had lobbed her easily into a nearby watering trough and then rode off without a backward glance. Which was too bad, since he could have learned the 21st century gesture for "farewell."

Now as she stared sullenly at the canvas wall of the tent, a plan came creeping into her head. Once she felt able to move around and sit without pain (she thought it would be a while; Tavington was always more enthusiastic when fully roused), she would steal a uniform and a horse, and go find her backpack – they had tried and tried to duplicate the accident with the rings to no avail. George now thought that if she retrieved her things from wherever they had landed in her flight from the forest, perhaps then she and her sister could go home where they belonged.

She decided that Cassandra would have to fend for herself when her sister broke into her thoughts with "So how was the spanking?"

A shift of position, and her sibling was treated to the "farewell" gesture, too.

"He wouldn't have tossed you into the trough as well if you hadn't bitten his leg, you know."

Yes, she was on her own. "Go to hell."

"I think I'm already there – have you _seen_ the latest latrines? Ew." A sigh, and then: "I'm bored, what shall we do?"

George scooted around carefully to face her. "Let's make voodoo dolls – is there any red and green fabric handy?"

Cassandra came over with a brush to fix the tangles, laughing. "You're too hard on him – he likes you, I can tell he does. You _do_ bring all this on yourself; he's just responding to the negative energy sent his way, sister dear. Can you tell me, and _honestly,_ mind you... that you won't miss him if we manage to get out of here?"

George grumbled into her forearms, wincing as Cassandra hit a tangle. "Let's not talk about him, okay? He gives me indigestion. Besides, what about you and Wilkins?" She was relieved when her sister began talking about the captain and cataloguing his many attributes; she let Cass' words wash over her while she thought about her earlier question. Would she miss Colonel Asshole? Not at all.

She resolutely ignored the tiny voice in her head, calling her a liar.


	4. The games begin

xxxDISCLAIMERxxx - Not mine, not making any money, please don't sue me.

A/N: I'm not sure what Bordon's first name is supposed to be, so I made something up. If anyone can tell me what his real name is, please let me know so I can correct it.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Georgia put her plan into action a week later, when her aching backside had healed enough that she was able to actually sit down. She still had possession of _his_ pants and the shirt she had swiped from his tent and managed to steal a spare vest from Bordon, as well as a hat and uniform coat from a careless young Dragoon who had left his things hanging from a tree branch. Thanking her lucky stars that the colonel was apparently still so angry with her that he didn't even want to lay his eyes upon her, she crept out of the tent she shared with her sister and out to the horse lines where she picked out a rather placid-looking gelding. She hadn't been able to steal a saddle or saddle blanket, but knew how to ride bareback so that didn't present any problems…she led the horse over to a convenient tree stump and climbed on, passing the sentries on guard duty and acknowledging them with a nod.

Urging the horse to a trot, she tried to remember which direction they had come – over the course of weeks the British army had moved a few times, so she retraced their steps. _Sure is a lot easier and faster on horseback_, she thought with a grin. _Now I can get my stuff and leave that asshole behind forever._ Her smile slipped off of her face slowly as she remembered the vivid dreams she'd been having lately about "that asshole." She had woken more than once with the almost overpowering need to find him and make the dreams sweet reality. He infuriated her to no end, that was true; but lately there seemed to be something in the way he looked at her, a hidden promise lurking in those gorgeous eyes…the slight quirk of the corners of his sensually-curved mouth when she talked back to him.

The thing was, how could a man who committed such brutal acts truly care for _anything_? And could she care for him, beyond the intense physical attraction? On the outside, he was every woman's dream – she'd never seen a more beautiful man and doubted she ever would – but a rattlesnake had better manners as well as a sweeter disposition. She had a decided penchant for "Bad Boys," but it never turned out well (Eric absconding with all her money being only the latest example) for anyone involved, because her "Save Him From Himself" instinct would kick in, and William Tavington would win the "fixer upper" grand prize. Why should she go through all that misery again for a man who just _recently_ started looking at her as if she were a particularly creamy éclair and he was on a diet? It would most likely be the most mind-blowing sex she'd ever have and completely ruin her for other men, but it would only be trouble in the end.

She recognized the large area of pasture that had been their last camp and smiled, that much closer to her goal. It was nearing midday when she reached her destination and she began to sing to herself; softly at first, then more loudly when she didn't see anyone else around who might be a threat to her. George was belting out Celine Dion's "My Heart Will Go On" – complete with the requisite chest-thumping action – as she scanned the roadside for the exact place she had emerged from the forest, completely unaware of the two riders behind her watching every move she made.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

"Don't you think we should let her know we're following her, sir?" Bordon asked his commander curiously.

Tavington wore a slight smile on his face as he watched the woman in front of them pounding her chest with a fist, nearly unseating herself. "Far be it from me to disrupt such an impassioned musical performance – she certainly is _odd_, isn't she, Bordon? I suppose we'll need to thank her sister for informing us of her…journey…so quickly." He glanced over at the captain in time to see the other man smooth a hand over his uniform nervously and correctly divined the reason for the unconscious reaction. He lifted a corner of his mouth when Bordon glanced over. "I believe Wilkins has been courting Miss Peyton…totally unsuitable, of course. We might have to do something about that, yes?"

Bordon reddened and smoothed a nonexistent wrinkle out of his sleeve. "Perhaps, sir. But…the fact remains that they are both, ahh, _mad_."

"Yes, unfortunately that seems to be true. We can only hope that once Georgia finds what she believes will plead her case and comes to the realization that she is _not_ from wherever she says she's from, this will communicate itself to her sister as well. With any luck, their peculiar madness will lose its grip. What _is_ she doing?" Tavington asked as, ahead of them, the faux-Dragoon began moving her arms in a strange fashion whilst chanting something that sounded like "Why em see yay". _I'll never understand that woman_, he thought, shaking his head.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

At last, George thought she saw something familiar and slid off of the horses back with a relieved sigh, rubbing her sore backside. Pulling the 'borrowed' helmet off, she hung it on a nearby branch after tying the reins on it, then she walked into the forest to look for her things. She had naïvely thought that it would take roughly ten minutes for her to find her only proof of belonging to a different century, and when her search was in its second hour she began to panic. Slow, measured steps became a wild rush and she scrabbled frantically in piles of leaves, desperately seeking her lost possessions. Tears began to roll down her cheeks as she finally slumped in defeat against a rotting tree trunk. "I'll never get home," she whispered to herself despairingly. Sliding down the tree to collapse in a pile of leaves, she put her head in her hands and wept.

The sharp sound of a snapping twig when weight is put upon it effectively jerked her out of her 'pity party; and she froze in remembered fear of what had happened to her last time. _This time there won't be any colonels around to come to the rescue, so you'll have to save yourself, Georgia Lee_. The sound came again, closer this time, and she leapt up to run. In her headlong flight, her foot was snagged by an exposed tree root and she fell flat on her face, wrenching her ankle painfully and slamming her nose against the ground. "Whatever are you running from?" Came the patronizing drawl that was the _coup de grace_ to her ego. This was perfect, just perfect. She started to snarl something back at him, but yelped in pain instead as he freed her foot from the root and began to work her boot off to inspect the damage. "It's generally good practice for one to watch where one's feet are placed," Tavington commented airily.

George tried to push herself off of the ground and only succeeded in rolling herself over onto her back, trying to ignore the sharp pain in her ankle and nose. "Oh, I'm bleeding," was the first thing she could think of to say when she saw the almost-concern in his face as he looked down on her. Tavington held a cloth to her face immediately and she took it from him, ignoring his advice to tilt her head back. Once the blood flow stopped (she had to tilt her head back) she lowered her head and looked at him suspiciously, suddenly aware of his arms supporting her. "I'm fine now." Batting away his hands she stood cautiously and tried to will away the fresh pain in her ankle, taking a few halting steps before crying out in pain… the colonel muttered an oath and lifted her into his arms to carry her back to the road. "But, my things! I have to get them," she protested, wiggling in his arms.

"_You_ don't have to do any such thing…now, not so loud. We don't want any colonials leaping out at us when I can't get at my sword easily," he said sternly. She clamped her mouth shut and clung to him – she wouldn't put it past him to drop her – while he strode to the waiting horses, carrying her easily. After balancing her on the horse carefully, he mounted and took her into his arms again while Bordon came up to them with a relieved expression on his face to greet her. "Back to the old campsite I think, Bordon," he told the captain who nodded solemnly and mounted his horse. The way back was slow and George was grateful that he didn't try to jolt her unnecessarily – the abrupt lack of fear made the adrenaline leave her system as quickly as it had entered it and she wilted in his arms, suddenly exhausted…he lifted one arm to support her and she pressed her forehead against the warm skin of his neck. He felt warm, strong and, strangely enough, comforting and she quickly dozed off against him.

She woke suddenly to feel hands on her leg and struggled reflexively until she remembered where she was and who she was with. Propping herself up on her elbows, she looked at the colonel, who knelt beside her legs wrapping a cloth soaked in cold water around her swollen ankle carefully. "You shouldn't have run from us," he reproved mildly as he tightened the cloth – it made her gasp with pain even though he was clearly being as gentle as he could.

"I thought you were those…men," George admitted with a blush that he didn't see; he was still securing the compress around her leg. "Were you following me the whole time?" she continued in an annoyed tone to help offset her embarrassment.

She relaxed against the saddle pad that had been placed behind her – by Bordon, she had no doubt – as he related how worried Cassandra had been. "She rousted me out of a meeting with the Lord General, thinking you had, as she put it, 'run away.' _Why_ did you go? Do you _still_ think you're from another time?" He listened solemnly to her explanation, and Tavington shifted to sit beside her. George's words trailed off at the sight of his profile, framed by the red and gold of the sunset. "Georgia, I believe that _you_ believe that you're from the future, but why not let that be enough? Isn't it enough that you're here _now_?" he asked in such a plaintive tone that she couldn't stop her hand from reaching out to touch his cheek.

Her heart began to pound as he covered her hand with his own – for once he wasn't wearing gloves – and leaned into her touch, easing closer. Unconsciously she wet her lips with her tongue and saw his eyes flick down to her mouth. "C-Colonel Tavington," she stammered as he took her hand from his face and held it in his own, stroking his thumb across her palm.

"You may call me William, if you wish," he said huskily, sliding ever closer to her until she could feel the heat radiating from his body. She licked her lips again, her eyes drifting to _his_ lips this time, and felt short of breath when he slowly leaned forward, offering her a chance to duck away…at this point, she wouldn't have done so in a million years and her eyelids fluttered closed in anticipation of his kiss when the spell was broken by Bordon's return. She could have laughed at the captain's embarrassed expression if she hadn't been so irritated at the interruption. Tav-no, _William_, was favoring his subordinate with a piercing glare while she scooted away to a 'safe' distance.

"Sorry, colonel," Bordon mumbled, flushing and trying to avoid the officer's eyes. "The horses are secured for the night, and a small complement of Infantry has been brought to stand watch as you requested, sir. They…they didn't find anything in the woods either." A look of relief at temporarily escaping his commander's wrath settled on his features when William leapt up to issue orders to the small group of Redcoats that could be seen through the trees. "Miss Peyton was very relieved to know that you were unharmed. Well, not precisely _unharmed_, but…well. She sends her regards and told me what needed to be done for your ankle," he told George, still fidgeting nervously until she told him to relax and confirmed that William had already done what was necessary to relieve most of the swelling. George took the opportunity to get to know him better, and found him to be a very affable and extremely polite man. They talked about their families and when his commander began walking back towards them, he surprised her by leaning close to murmur something to her. "Miss Hampstead – Colonel Tavington will most likely ask you something tonight, or in the next few days…say yes." And with that, he straightened as William ducked back into the small clearing and pretended not to notice as the other man looked at him curiously.

They ate food that had been brought back from the main encampment, since it would be folly to alert any Rebels to their presence by hunting and firing their pistols. George ate thoughtfully, wondering just what Bordon had meant...surely he wouldn't propose _marriage_ to her! No, she ruled that out immediately with a snort that caused her to clap a hand over her sore nose and made William look over at her inquiringly. "I'm fine," she said ruefully. Bordon wore a knowing look on his face that made her long to slap the information right out of him – she gave him a dirty look that only made him smile and go back to rubbing the mud from his boots. The fire was built up again and George submitted to the colonel's ministrations once more as he checked her ankle…she shivered from the feel of his fingers on her skin and he looked up at her, a smile tugging at the corner of those kissable lips. _I'm feverish, that's all there is to it. I've caught some 18th century virus and now all I want to do is throw him into a hayloft and have my way with him. _"It's cold out here," she explained, lying through her teeth.

"Georgia, may I…?" He shook his head. "No matter. Take this," he said, pulling off his uniform coat and handing it to her while pressing her back to the ground gently. Their faces were only inches apart as he leaned over her, and a strand of his hair came loose from his queue to fall on her cheek. Reaching up slowly, she tucked it behind his ear and looked up into his eyes, pursing her lips ever so slightly in permission. He lowered his lips to hers and kissed her with a sweetness that left her lightheaded – when he drew back to look at her and gauge the success of his forwardness, she surprised him by grasping him by the ears and hauling him back down to her.

Unfortunately right before their mouths met a second time, Bordon was in full cock-blocking mode and cleared his throat loudly as he came back by the fire, informing his commander that he had brought blankets with him. He simply met the murderous glares leveled at him with a slight smile, motioning to a spot on the far side of the fire. "I've set up a bed for you just there, colonel." He pointed and didn't move until his commander did, then set up George's bed a short distance from his. "You'll thank me later," he whispered with a smile. George scowled at him and rolled over on her side with her body humming with unfulfilled desire – _damn _it! Hours later after tossing, turning, and unable to get comfortable, she finally surrendered to the urge and began to crawl as quietly as she could past Bordon. She inched past trying not to breathe but when she glanced over, she saw that he was wide awake, very amused, and looking right at her.

"_Damn_ it!" she hissed, pounding the ground in irritation. Under the captain's watchful gaze, she scooted back into her blankets and hauled them up to the bridge of her nose, glaring at Bordon over them. He laughed softly and rolled back over to sleep.

Morning came so suddenly for her that she swore that she had just closed her eyes when William shook her shoulder gently. "Time to leave," he informed her. "I'll take you back on my mount; you'd just fall asleep in the saddle if we left you on your own." Indeed, she was asleep against him the moment he turned the horse back onto the path, his arms coming around her tightly. She was irritated anew at being awakened again when they reached the camp, and at being the center of the Dragoons' grinning attention when she was conveyed to Cassandra. Her sister ran to her with a cry of relief, embracing first her and then the two officers – William looked startled, but Bordon turned a startling shade of pink and was out of the tent like a shot. Cassandra turned to the colonel for a full explanation of events and when he said, "I believe she's sprained her ankle," the rest of the Dragoons erupted in hoots and cheers, slapping their commander on the back jovially – he swiftly stopped the outburst with a venomous glare and ordered the rest of them out of the tent.

He stayed to watch Cassandra tend to her, and lingered when her sister left the tent in search of something that would serve as gauze wrap. "Georgia," he began, fiddling with his plumed helmet.

She sat up. This was it; she'd find out just what Bordon had been talking about. "Yes…William?" She found that she greatly enjoyed calling him by his first name – it made them seem that much more intimate. After their kiss the previous night, she had quite forgotten her previous misgivings and was more than ready to get to know the handsome colonel better.

He swallowed and looked down at his boots, then up again at her. "May I…court you?" he blurted.

George looked at him in disbelief. "Wasn't that what you've been doing? Though I can't say that a girl is romanced by being publicly humiliated," she said mockingly. He seemed to wilt slightly under her sarcasm and she remembered the gossip she had heard regarding his set-downs at the hands of Lord General Cornwallis…Colonel William Tavington was a proud man and he wouldn't have taken the oft-discussed dismissals well at all. She still thought he was impossible, but if he actually was swallowing his pride and admitting his attraction to her by asking _this_… she was loathe to add to the destruction of his self-esteem in this way.

She was unaware of the time she had spent just looking at him, thinking about this and not speaking when he dropped his head and turned to leave. "No, William, _wait_," she cried, and he turned back to her, obviously looking as hopeful as he dared. "Yes, you may, um, _court_ me. If I can have a kiss to seal the deal?" she teased. His answering smile, the first she had really seen, was like dawn breaking as he approached her.

William bent his head to kiss her when he stopped suddenly. "Shite. That's what Bordon was banging on about – how did _he_ know?" She silenced him by dragging his head down and kissing him soundly until they both heard Cassandra's shocked intake of breath. George released him and pushed him to the tent's opening.

"Get out of here – your Dragoons have been shamefully neglected and miss you terribly, I'm sure." She was pleased to note the foolish grin on his face as he took his leave of them and turned to explain all to her incredulous sister. "…so I think Bordon was acting as a chaperone or something," she finished. "Isn't Wilkins with you?"

Cassandra frowned. "No, we're not seeing each other any more…apparently he thought I was going back with James – Captain Bordon – and figured he'd pass the time with Nancy Travis. In _my_ bed, no less. We're all set up with the other officer's wives now."

"Oh, good heavens, Cassie! You're after _Bordon_ now? I suppose he's good looking enough, but….desperate much?"

"Look who's talking – the last time I checked, you couldn't stand Tavington. Now you're dating…or whatever. I certainly didn't think that shoving your tongue down his throat convinced him of your dislike," Cassandra sniffed. "Besides, James is a true gentleman. You were right about sticking to the men with accents."

George laughed at her sister and lay back on the cot. Dreams of William Tavington made sleep thoroughly enjoyable.


End file.
